The moment your five-year-old daughter, Wren, stormed into the kitchen with a stubborn stomp and a dramatic huff, followed by your husband Blake, who wore a matching scowl, you knew something had gone spectacularly wrong.

“We’ve got a situation,” Blake said, his voice low and grim.

Before you could ask, Wren spun on her heel and declared, “I want a boyfriend!”

Blake’s face hardened as though the very word had personally insulted him. “You do not. You’re five. Five-year-olds don’t need boyfriends. I’m your favorite person. Daddy is enough for you,” he said without missing a beat, denying the inconceivable logic of a five-year-old while puffing his chest out in a way that would have been comical if the situation weren’t so serious to him.

Wren scrunched her face, clearly far from agreeable. “Not anymore! You’re mean! I don’t like you!”

And just like that, she stormed out of the kitchen.

Blake stood there, utterly still, like someone had hit pause on him. You tried to suppress a laugh, reaching out to pat his arm. “It’s okay, Blake. It’s just a phase. Give her ten minutes.”

“A phase?” Blake repeated, his voice rising in pitch. “Do you know how many linebackers I’ve tackled, how many career-ending injuries I’ve avoided? But this? This is a mortal wound.” For someone usually gruff and aloof, he looked genuinely distraught.

The faint hum of wheels and the telltale click of a Nerf gun broke the moment. Bryce, your three-year-old, rolled into the kitchen on his balance bike,

He skidded to a halt beside Blake, tilting his head “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Your sister doesn’t like me anymore.” Blake sighed, gesturing vaguely toward the hall.

Bryce’s tiny face took on the seriousness of a man who had seen far too much in his three years. He leveled the Nerf gun at the hallway “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll make her like you again.”

With that, Bryce pedaled off on his balance bike and disappeared around the corner. "Bryce, we can’t solve family problems with foam guns!'' Blake called, trailing after him.